


The Youngblood Chronicles

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Youngblood Chronicles, Blood, Death, Haha hooks, I don't why hooks are funny, Pretty violent but you probably know that, Save Rock and Roll, Violence, im bad at tagging, possessed!Patrick, sorry - Freeform, this was a bad idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:07:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've got a briefcase, some handcuffs, and a big problem.</p><p>But they're willing to risk everything to solve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a fanfic of the YBC for ages, and I'm finally doing it. :)
> 
> My first-ever real fanfic, so sorry if it's not that great. Hope it's decent at least, please tell me any improvements I can possibly make with my writing.

The four men walk into the dark room as one flips the light switch. For a moment, nothing happens, then the lights flicker feebly, and with a small buzz, illuminate the room.  
The man with the fedora and dark-rimmed glasses enters the code on the metal briefcase before them, and they hear a small click as it grants them access. He glances nervously at his friends, and slowly lifts the lid.  
Bright light washes over them as they glimpse the briefcase's contents.  
"Wow." The dark-haired man next to the first one runs his hands through his locks, exhaling deeply but shakily.  
The first looks around, a small grin stealing over his pale face.  
The one on the left, who is covered in tattoos, and sports a short haircut, is also grinning and shaking his head.  
The man on the far right, whose hair is dark and curly,  is also impressed, shaking his head wordlessly.  
No words are needed, though. They take one look at each other, and know what to do. The lid on the briefcase slams shut, and metal handcuffs click, binding the first's wrist to the handle.  
They grab the briefcase and exit.

Patrick strides down the street, walking with purpose and glancing over his leather-clad shoulder every so often.  
In his hand, there is the briefcase.   
On his hand is a black symbol. The symbol of his band. The Defenders of the Faith.  
On his wrist, there are metal chains binding him to the briefcase.  
Patrick sings softly to himself as he goes, a scrap of melody they had put together recently.  
"You are a brick tied to me that's draggin' me down; strike a match and I'll burn you to the ground..."  
Cars zip by on the street. Ahead of him, a young kid on a bike rounds the corner. He has wild, curly hair tucked under a beanie. It reminds Patrick a bit of Joe.  
He doesn't notice the woman dressed in black, racing up behind him.  
The kid smiles at Patrick, who returns the grin, the uneasy feeling still in his gut.  
A jolt of electricity courses through the singer's body as the woman knocks him out and tackles him to the grass, then drags him off.

Patrick wakes up in a dark, badly lit room. A rough hood is being yanked off of his head. Stupidly, he notices that his fedora is not there. His head explodes into a flurry of panic: he's tied securely to a chair, handcuffed hand strapped to a board, and god, he's aching like hell. Immediately he begins to thrash about, his captors laughing at his fruitless attempts to escape.  
One woman, who has a high dark ponytail, stuffs a cloth gag into his mouth. Ow. But then she releases it suddenly, and Patrick screams, as loud as he can. He needs to get out of here, warn his friends that they've been found.  
The girls are climbing all over him, holding a drill near his head, gagging him again, all while he jerks around, trying to get loose. They're crazy, he realizes. And they want the briefcase.  
One raises a huge knife above her head, the biggest knife Patrick has ever seen.  
And then he realizes what's about to happen.  
The sickening crunch is following by agony, like nothing Patrick's ever felt. All he knows is pain, at that moment, racing white-hot up his arm and spreading to every nerve in his body. He lets loose a blood-curdling scream, shaking even worse than before, almost blacking out again. His hand, along with the briefcase, have been separated from him.

Pete wakes up in his bed, next to a pretty blonde. "Morning," she says, eyes sparkling. "Morning," he replies, returning her warm smile. They chat for a while, until the doorbell rings downstairs. "I'll get it," Pete says, a bit resentful at the caller for making him leave his warm bed and the girl.  
He opens the door, but no one is there. A small rustling noise catches his attention, and he looks down.  
A red-stained plastic bag is hanging from the doorknob. Curious, Pete unhooks it and peeks inside.  
"Shit." He breathes. It's a hand, bloody and relatively real-looking. He might have passed it off as a sick prank if not for his edginess lately.  
And the fact that it had their symbol drawn on it. The same symbol Patrick had doodled on his left hand with a Sharpie the other day.

Pete races to his roof, yanking on a leather glove and opening Phoenix's cage as fast as he can. He clucks his tongue, and the falcon hops onto his arm. "You know what to do." he whispers, and the bird pushes off, soaring into the deep blue expanse of sky. Pete stares after it, silently praying.

Patrick's strapped to a table now, and the girls loom over him gleefully. One picks up a metal tray full of what seem to be surgical tools.  
Surgical tools. Shit.  
"Shhh..." she coos mockingly, holding a finger to her lips and separating the handles of the forceps. They're wet with blood, and Patrick is terrified. The pain of his wound has subsided somewhat, but throbs horribly as his stomach turns at the thought of what's coming.  
He groans in agony as they slice into his belly, doing god knows what, but for sure fucking up his insides. Patrick keeps thrashing, more feebly now, and holds up his remaining hand in a fruitless gesture of defense. God, it hurts, it hurts so bad. He wants to sob but the tears won't come.

Andy walks through the parking lot, feeling a bit uneasy. He had had that feeling ever since Patrick took the briefcase, but it intensifies as he glimpses movement above him. He squints through the sunlight at the falcon flapping its way towards him. His eyes widen beneath the dark sunglasses.  
Pete's falcon. Phoenix.  
Seconds later, a girl in a black ski mask, also clad in black leather, tackles him into a black van.

Patrick's still in horrible pain, but he somehow manages to keep himself conscious. Barely. He tried to focus on something else, anything but the agony tearing into his left arm and now his abdomen. He begins to sing, raspily, hardly more than a scratch or a scream.  
"Heeeeeey, young blood, doesn't it feel like our time is running out..."

Joe sighs and lights a cigarette as he lifts the gas nozzle to his car. He looks up at the flurry of movement in the sky, quickly recognizing Pete's falcon.  
He, like Patrick and Andy, doesn't hear the girl striding up behind him until it's too late, and she's clapping a wet cloth over his mouth, knocking him out.

Pete watches Phoenix go, and stands, trying to think clearly. They wouldn't kill Patrick. Not yet, at least. He only had so much time to find his best friend, though, and he didn't even know if Phoenix would make it to Joe and Andy.  
But he had to hope.  
He fails to notice the girl, clad in black, coming up behind him.  
She pulls off her ski mask, revealing tumbling blond hair and dark eyeliner. She readies a syringe, grabs him, and plunges it into his neck.  
"'Night," she whispers, and just before Pete sinks into unconsciousness, he glimpses the girl who was chatting amiably with him in the safety of his warm bed, only five minutes before.

Patrick must have finally given in to the darkness at some point.  
He wakes up peacefully this time, or as peacefully as he can with a hacked-off hand and a roughly-stitched gouge in his side.  
His head feels fuzzy and his vision is blurry. He's seated in an ornate chair in front of a grand table laden with a feast. What the setup before him consists of, he can't tell, and rolls his head back lazily. Another song creeps into his mind, and he begins to snap his blood-slick fingers.


	2. Young Volcanoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Good news, I will likely be able to update quite often, as I now have a lot of free time, and the weekend just started. :) Thank you all for any support or criticism you give, it really helps. <3

The elevator ascends with a series of slightly alarming creaks and groans. It's clearly fallen into disrepair, but miraculously still works, which is a good thing for the woman inside, tapping her painted nails impatiently against the faded "No smoking" sign.  
Not such a good thing for the Defenders, though.

Patrick sits at the head of the table, snapping the red-stained fingers of his remaining hand. There is no audible music playing; only the melody in his head.  
He sings softly, voice scratchy, but he doesn't care. Anything to take his mind off the pain.  
"La, du da duh, la du duh duh da, la du da duh, du duh duh..."  
Anything that comes to his mind, any tune. Just to dull the pain.  
He begins to put some words to it, some lyrics he had recently found scrawled on a Post-It note under the seats in Pete's car.  
"When Rome's in ruins, we are the lions, free of the coliseums..."  
Patrick thinks he can hear someone yelling out in the hall.  
He keeps singing as the door opens. His mind is clouded, both with fear and pain.  
Three people are screaming. All men.  
Suddenly, it hits him. Pete's voice. Andy's. Joe's.  
He sings, keeps his eyes closed. He's delirious now, swaying only to the song in his head, no longer in a futile attempt to escape.  
"Before it has begun, we've already won..."  
The door opens, and the footsteps and voices become much clearer. Definitely his friends. Patrick giggles; have they come to join him? He's just waving his hand about now, singing.

Andy winces as he's yanked backwards and slammed into a hard chair. His hands are bound tightly with ropes, his vision obscured by a black blindfold. He's definitely panicking now, even though he knows Pete and Joe are there. Attempting to clear his head, Andy realizes that Patrick is singing. Fucking singing, at a time like this? He hears Joe and Pete yelling, nearly drowning out Patrick, but their captors don't seem to give a shit. Dread fills his stomach, because if they aren't worried about being heard, then they must be alone.  
Alone. No one to help, no one to save them.

Pete screams. It's all he's been doing since he woke up, and he's distinctly aware of the effect it's having on his throat and voice.  
Suddenly, he becomes aware that he can hear Patrick's voice, and quiets down. A sliver of hope, given by the sound of his best friend's rather scratchy voice, is quickly overwhelmed with a tsunami of dread. Patrick is level-headed, one of the more rational people he knows. If he's singing, with his hand gone, and god knows what else, then it's really fucking bad. He could have been drugged, or driven insane from being tortured, or...  
Pete pushes the thought from his mind. He can't think of this now; he needs to be the reasonable one.  
Until he hears the faint, but unmistakeable sound, and freezes.  
A snake, slithering over the table before him.

Joe groans as the IV is plunged into his hand. He's never liked shots, but this is so much worse: he's scared out of his mind, and the girls aren't being careful at all. He hears Patrick's singing falter, as well as Andy and Pete's yells. They must have gotten the fluids as well.

"Come on, make it easy, say I never mattered..."

The yells have subsided, but Patrick continues to sing. He watches, mesmerized, as the girls surround them, holding shiny metal pitchers and IV needles. Then cool glass is being held to his lips, and the lips of his friends. Patrick drinks the dark red liquid, not sure what to make of it. It's tangy, like wine, but coppery like blood.  
Perhaps it's both.

Pete wants to spit out that drink, that fucking awful drink, but the girl snarls, "Swallow." He doesn't dare disobey, for fear that they'll do something to Patrick or Andy or Joe. Then the tip of a hookah is being held to his mouth, and he exhales the vapor. Moments later, a bout of lightheadedness and nausea seizes him, and he pitches forward slightly. Pete catches the scent of the tobacco wafting through the room, and guesses that the same is being done to all of them. He sighs, wishing endlessly for it to just be over.

Patrick stares at the black-haired girl who strides up and crouches beside him, smirking and twirling a strawlike object between her fingers. She holds a silver platter of brightly colored powder: red, orange, yellow, pink, and blue. He glances curiously at her. "Snort it." She grins. He does, nearly sneezing. "Tickles," he giggles, common sense drifting away. She smirks again, a cruel smile, and moves on to Pete. Patrick gets a sudden rush of energy and jerks about in his chair.  
Next, they bring out silver platters filled with more food: mushed-up bread (which Patrick crinkles his nose at), bloodred apples, some kind of pie. Patrick bites at an apple, as another girl tries to spoon-feed him some of the bread. He feels his shirt lift a bit as he thrashes, and a sudden bolt of pain smacks into him as the slice in his abdomen stretches with him. Patrick groans, and one of the girls takes the opportunity to give him another bite of apple.

Light slices through the room moments later, and Joe lifts his blindfold, feeling happy and high. He glimpses some kind of meat on the ornate table, and it looks a bit like organs.  
A little part of his brain tells him that should be really unsettling, but Joe really couldn't give a shit, and leans over to grab a hunk. It's like a party: the girls are dancing, Patrick looks elated, Andy's standing up to walk around, and, well, Pete's got some of that blue powder running down his tanned face.  
And look, a disco ball! "Paaaaaanic at the discoooo," Joe hears someone giggle. It sounds suspiciously like Andy, and Joe can't help but to laugh as well.

Pete practically falls out of his seat, bouncing over to Patrick, passing a girl who now seems to be wearing a gory animal mask. "Heeeey buddyyyy!" Pete drawls, speech slurred. Patrick laughs and dances past him. Pete copies his movements, hardly noticing that he's spilled some of the cocaine-like stuff, and that it's caused almost half his face to be tinged royal blue.

Patrick is having the time of his life. He doesn't have a care in the world right now.  
Then one of the woman removes her top, and Patrick starts giggling again. "I've seen those a coupla--maybe once!" he slurs to Andy, who's got another glass of that drink. And, well, it looks like someone's started a food fight, so he joins in, popping some more bread in his mouth in between hits. There's powder and wine and bread flying everywhere, and this is what fun is, this is the pure ecstasy of not caring, not giving half of a shit at all.

Suddenly, like it never really happened, it's quiet and the lights are dim again. Patrick's exhausted, though, and his friends appear to be feeling the same way. Pete's head lolls back gently, Andy appears to have passed out, and... well, Patrick isn't even sure what happened to Joe.

He snaps his fingers a final time, and the music in his head fades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter was not quite as good as The Phoenix. It was a bit difficult to write, and I was trying to do it quickly, as I'm more sleep-deprived than usual. :P
> 
> Also, in this chapter, Patrick has an imaginary stereo in his head. Like me.


	3. Alone Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter's so spaced out. My iPad was being bitchy. :P  
> Anyways, this was really fun to write, and I hope it's as much fun to read! Remember, please comment any tips or criticism you have, it's much appreciated.  
> Thanks guys! :)

The heels of the dark-haired girl's shoes click as she descends the dimly-lit stairs, exiting the building. A jet-black car, with the license plate "RATATAT" has pulled up to the front, and as she approaches, a pale, bony hand reaches through the window. The girl hands over the metal briefcase, which has metal handcuffs linked to the handle.

 

The machine turns on with a click and a whir of the tapes, and Patrick jolts awake. He glances around wildly, taking in his surroundings: he is tightly bound (yet again) to a chair. He's in a chapel, one with an ornate red, yellow, purple and orange stained-glass window behind him. The only light comes from two small lamps on the same wall, and a few tiny candles to his left. Machines surround him, and a barely audible tape of himself singing fills his ears.

"I don't know where you're goin', but do you got room for one more troubled soul?"

How the hell did they get that? He recorded it on GarageBand over a month ago, on his laptop... Patrick's still horribly exhausted, but even more uneasy now, if possible.

 

Pete wakes up in a dark room, bound in a straitjacket and surrounded by faceless mannequins. The carpet is a vibrant crimson, and the sole light in the place is the spotlight that's currently blinding him. He keeps his chin to his chest, but the hanging lightbulbs start to flicker, and he opens his mouth wide in a scream, thrashing against his restraints.

 

Joe is in a straitjacket and seated on a stool, and two bright spotlights are shining at him from both sides. He thinks he might be on a stage, but senses someone else's presence in the room, and keeps his curly head down.

For now, they can't find out that he's awake. Though surely, he thinks, they will soon, so he raises his head a fraction.

There's a velvety blue curtain behind him and a silver microphone in front of him. Not caring about whoever else might be there, he shrieks into it, desperate. Andy's got a pair of headphones clamping down on his ears, playing the same tape over and over at an uncomfortable volume. A white straitjacket binds his tattooed arms to his chest, which is similarly inked. The room has dim orangish lighting, and a soft shag carpet cushions his aching feet.

Andy glances behind him. The rest of the room is furnished as a living room might be: an armchair, a grandfather clock, a bulky lamp, an old-fashioned TV. An old-fashioned TV that's showing his image, every move he makes.

Andy starts to yell as the volume becomes painfully loud.

 

Patrick thrashes around in the wooden chair. There's a beeping in his ears now, becoming increasingly louder and higher pitched. Wires are stuck to his forehead, and god, this is starting to really hurt.

He lets out a long, loud scream, raising his eyes to the dark ceiling, the noise scratching at his already-raw throat. Patrick starts to sob a bit; he thinks his ears might start bleeding soon from the frequency.

Agony again.

 

Pete's wrenching around so much that at one point, he nearly falls off his chair. He just keeps screaming; this is awful. He hates the environment he's in now. It reminds him too much of the old days, when he was called an attention whore and all the other awful things. He never wanted to remember that, but these people knew all the right buttons to push.

He just wants it to be over. He wants to find Patrick and Andy and Joe and get the hell out of here, get far away from whoever these people are, get back to Meagan and Bronx, live his normal life.

Then he remember's Patrick's hand, and realizes that things will never be normal for them again.

 

Two girls come in, joined hand in hand, and stride purposefully down the aisle towards him. Patrick's eyes widen in fear, the ringing in his ears getting even worse. They begin grabbing him, shaking his chair.

Then one flicks on another machine.

 

Joe thrashes as a few little kids, girls in uniforms, come up and start dancing around him, vicious snarls on their chubby faces, beating him with their fists.

He never thought he'd be so scared of a few seven-year-olds.

 

Andy's shrieking as a middle-aged woman with white-blond hair walks in. She's dressed in a black fur coat and dress, and reminds him a bit of Cruella de Vil for some reason. She puts a record on, and it gets even louder. In response, he screams louder, until his throat is raw.

 

The door creaks open and a black-haired girl comes in. She's scantily clad in dark leather, and looks similiar to the rest of them, except for the metal hook on her hand. She walks in slow circles around Pete as he thrashes and yells. A camera is in her hand and she's taking countless pictures of them, a blinding white flash going off each time.

Eventually Pete manages to calm down enough to form half a plan. He throws his signature smirk at her, and it seems to work. She puts down the camera and sidles up close to him. He's disgusted by what he's about to do and frightened out of him mind, but forces himself to go with it, keeping the smile on his face, lowering his eyelids slightly. She starts kissing at the corners of his mouth, then moves away. He's a bit disconcerted, hoping she's not about to take more pictures.

Then she straddles his hips, sitting on his lap and kissing him with vigor, ponytail swinging back and forth. Her fingers tangle in his messy black hair. Pete really, really, hates this, but he knows he has to if he wants to live.

The girl pulls off his straitjacket, revealing his tanned, inked skin, and breaks the kiss for a moment, climbing off to stare at him through dark eyes. She goes in again, and he leans forward, feigning an embrace.

Then Pete grabs her around the shoulders and forces her to the floor.

He yanks the hook off and raises it above his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and brings it down with all his might.

He does it again, and blood sprays up, coating his face and shoulders. Once he knows she's gone, he wrenches open the door and races out into the hall, wiping his face as he goes.

 

Patrick sobs as the girls shake his chair and turn up the noise.

"I'm on deck, yeah, I'm up next; tonight I'm high as a private jet..."

Then, suddenly, they're gone. He keeps screaming.

 

Andy's scared out of his mind. The woman crawls around on the floor, running her hands over the TV screen that's showing his face.

"Conratulations," it reads.

 

Joe's greenish-blue eyes widen in fear as the kids sit at a table filled with food: apples, eggs, lettuce, among other things. They bare vicious snarls at him and begin throwing the rotten food. He tries to turn away, but it doesn't help.

They continue to pelt him with the foul-smelling projectiles.

 

Pete dashes down the hall, looking over his shoulder as he goes. He's running faster then he has for as long as he can remember, adrenaline fueling his steps. He turns into the first open doorway he sees, and stops dead in his tracks.

Containers labeled as flammable. Copies of Fall Out Toy Works. Fall Out Boy records. Lighters.

He turns and runs back into the hall as all the lighting goes red and an alarm starts blaring.

They must know he's escaped. A new dread fills his stomach as two girls run out the doors behind him and begin chasing him. He forces his legs to pump even faster, fueled by adrenaline and terror.

At one point, he trips, tumbling to the ground. The girls snatch at his ankles, but he can see the blue light of the hallway up ahead.

So close. So fucking close.

Pete wrenches his legs away, pushing himself back up and sprinting for his life.

 

The only thing Joe can think right now is, god, these kids are pretty damn messed up. They're chucking stuff at him like there's no tomorrow, it's getting all stuck in his hair and everything, and it's utterly disgusting. Then an alarm goes off, and everything turns red.

Maybe one of his friends escaped.

He hopes that's what the commotion means.

 

Andy can hardly scream anymore. The lights are red, and an alarm is shrieking through the building. The woman hisses in his ear, pulling out a gleaming pocketknife, grabbing his jaw.

He's going to go insane soon if this doesn't stop. Then she pulls away, crawling back along the floor, putting a new record on the player.

Andy takes his chance and lurches, tipping over the wooden chair, crashing to the fluffy carpet, screaming.

 

Patrick is in complete agony now.

Suddenly, a new feeling begins to take over: rage. Blinding, solid anger. He tries to fight it, push it back down, but every irritating, anger-filled experience he's ever had is coming back to him in detail so vivid, he feels like he's reliving it.

He feels his eyes burn horribly, and then there's nothing at all.

Nothing except the rage.

He stops thrashing as the girls shriek in glee, and now he's only twitching a bit. Patrick growls, almost animal-like. Whatever happened has taken over him. He stares blindly ahead, expression stony, suddenly motionless.

Pure rage. Pure anger. Pure hate.

 

Pete loses sight of the girls, and swings himself into another room on the side of the corridor. This one is also bathed in a bloodred glow, and he sees a dark-skinned man thrashing against his white straitjacket, screaming, who looks vaguely familiar. Wasting no time, Pete slashes the hook he's stolen across the man's bonds. "You've gotta get out of here, man. Get as far away as possible, don't let anyone see you." he says, then tears back out of the room.

The guy quickly shrugs off the straitjacket and follows, but turns in a different direction once they reach the hall. Every instinct is screaming at Pete to follow him, get to safety, but he has to find his friends, help them.

He can't leave Patrick.

As Pete dashes down the corridor, a door bursts open and a girl leaps out, blocking his path. Attempting in vain to get around her outstretched arms, he takes a sharp turn and nearly misses it, skidding to a halt, landing painfully on his wrists and ass, sliding across the linoleum floor. He'll probably have pretty bad floor-burns later, but that's the very least of his worries. Patrick. He would know those noises anywhere, but they sound...mangled. Inhuman.

The only way he knows it's his best friend is...well, he can't explain it. He just knows.

Pete yanks open the doors and rushes in. This room also has a red glow, illuminating his friend the same way. "Patrick!" he shouts. His friend doesn't answer, just keeps staring straight ahead, and Pete's stomach plummets to the floor.

He runs in front of Patrick, waving a hand in front of his face. Pete only just misses the loss of a finger of two as Patrick suddenly lunges, gnashing his teeth at Pete. Pete's heart jumps to his throat, skipping a beat.

Patrick's eyes are a bright, sickly yellow, glowing in the light.

He roars, and lunges again for Pete, fists clenching tight, teeth bared in a horrible snarl. Pete steels himself and tackles Patrick, trying to get the hook onto where his left hand used to be. His friend, or monster, or whatever this...thing is, puts up a terrific struggle, growling, snarling, lashing out with all his might.

Then Pete succeeds, and with a bright white flash and a wisp of smoke, the hook welds to Patrick's mutilated wrist. Patrick opens his mouth wide and lets out a long, loud scream of pain mixed with rage.

The sound of his friend in such agony rips at Pete's heart.

Two girls come in, and one shrieks, "There!" Pete doesn't have time to react as the other raises a black tube to her lips and a sharp pain pierces his neck.

He automatically puts a hand to it, feeling a small dart, but the room goes dark immediately as he collapses to the ground, unconscious.

Smoke curls from the hook as Patrick's face twists in a hate-filled snarl.

 

Sean draws back into the bushes slightly as they leave the building. The four men are woozy, their hands bound tightly behind their backs, vision obscured by the black hoods over their heads. They're shoved down the stairs, their handlers not taking much care to preserve them, only to keep them alive and moving.

One of the women opens the back doors of the waiting black van, and the prisoners are bundled inside. She slams the door shut, and the girls climb into the front and passenger seats of the vehicle.

He grimaces, and once they start driving, he follows, being careful to keep in the foliage at the edge of the dark road.


	4. My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark (Light 'Em Up)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!  
> Sorry that this took so long to update. I've been working on another fic lately, which has taken more time than I'd expected. (I'm also looking for a beta reader to proofread it, so please comment about it below if you're interested!) Rambling aside, I hope this chapter, while fairly short, is enjoyable. Thanks for reading! :)

The van halts in a grassy clearing.

The door opens and a man wearing all black exits, carrying a container of accelerant. Chains and spiked bracelets adorn his wrist and neck, and despite the darkness of the night, he wears large sunglasses and a beanie. More chains swing from his belt, reaching almost all the way to his oversized boots. A black t-shirt and leather vest complete the look.

Striding through the clearing with confidence despite the low visibility, he reaches a pile of wood obviously meant for a bonfire, and douses it with the kerosene. The clear liquid drips from the branches; he has not taken his task lightly.

A tiny flame lights his dark-skinned face as he strikes a single match.

The man throws it into the grass, the fire quickly spreading along the path he has traced with the kerosene. It reaches the wood in a matter of seconds, and flames flood the clearing with a yellow-tinted light as the man throws his arms in the air, whooping in glee.

Behind him, the passenger and driver's doors of the black van open, and two girls climb out. Like their comrades, they are scantily clad in black leather, with dark makeup, heavy gold jewelry, and high ponytails. They carry musical instruments: drumsticks, a guitar, an amp cord, a kick drum.

The drumsticks are the first to meet the fire.

One of the women lets out a yell as she flings the guitar into the bonfire. The other watches her, bracing a foot against the shiny black kick drum.

More items join the ones already being consumed by the flames: a Fall Out Boy poster, a snare drum, cymbals, amps. A few copies of Fall Out Toy Works. Vinyl records. CDs.

Then the man returns to the fire, having slipped away moments prior, dark dreadlocks swaying ever so slightly. He carries a long flamethrower, ominous in his hands. The girls exchange smug, knowing looks and step back as the man takes their places.

Flames engulf the instruments and records, destroying anything that had previously survived the heat.

Orange sparks fly into the air. The sight is wondrous, yet frightening at the same time.

The two women wear pleased expressions, one even throwing back her head in gleeful laughter.

As the flames begin to die down, the women turn and open the back doors of the van.

Four men crouch there, eerily lit by the fluorescent bulbs overhead, thrashing against their restraints. Canvas hoods obscure their faces, ropes bind their hands. One has a sharp metal hook where his left hand should have been.

The man from the bonfire, having now joined the girls at the van, strikes another match, holding it up and cocking his head in mock curiosity.

The little flame burns ominously in the cold, dark night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking forward to The Mighty Fall!
> 
> Also, happy late birthday, Pete! <3


	5. The Mighty Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that this update took so long! I'm just really bad at updating when I probably should and really good at procrastinating by writing other stuff :P

Pete coughs, a deep, painful hacking sound, from the smoke filling the crowded space.

"What's going on?" he hears Andy inquire from beside him, voice cracking. Pete feels someone kick hard at his ankle. "Hey!" he yelps. "Sorry, man." Joe's voice comes from directly in front of him. So Andy must be next to Joe, then.

That means that the person to his immediate right must be Patrick, if they're alone in the van. His friend hasn't said a word in ten minutes, so Pete assumes he's unconscious.

He swings his bound wrists at what he hopes is Patrick's shoulder. They connect with smooth leather, and Pete thinks he probably hit Patrick's bicep, so he slides his hands up, and they slope over his left shoulder. Perfect. Uncurling his fists, he feels for Patrick's face. Pete attempts to slap at Patrick's cheeks, wake him up, but that doesn't seem to work, so he shoves himself against his best friend, hoping he doesn't impale himself on the hook.

It works, and Patrick jolts awake, screaming in fear and agony. Instinctively, Pete leaps back, then leans forward, trying to soothe Patrick. The smoke is worse now, and there's an orange tint to the light.

"Shit!" Pete snarls, groping for Patrick's hook. By some insane miracle, he locates it, and uses it to slip off his bonds. All four of them are coughing now, choking on the smoke. Pete isn't exactly sure where the fire is, but they've got to get out.

Ripping off his canvas hood, he charges the door, smacking into it shoulder-first. It opens slightly, and hope blossoms in his chest.

Maybe they won't die in here.

Pete repeats the action, and feels cold, clear _precious_ air fill his aching lungs. But the door isn't all the way open yet. Letting out a scream of fury, he pours all his strength into the final push, ramming his shoulder into the van doors.

They fly open, and he tumbles out onto the frosty grass, gasping for the oxygen he'd been deprived of for the past few minutes. Gray smoke is pouring out in thick clouds into the clearing, and he forces himself to get back up. Reaching into the heated van, he pulls out who he thinks is Joe. Whoever it was collapses to the ground, fumbling with his restraints.

Next he finds Andy, and by now, there's a bright orange glow in the haze. Gritting his teeth, Pete crawls back into the van and gropes blindly. His fingers meet feather-soft hair, matted with blood and sweat, and he locates Patrick's wrist. Not stopping to be gentle, he yanks his best friend out of the blaze and deposits him safely on the grass next to Andy and Joe.

Racing to the front of the van, Pete finds a fire extinguisher. Returning to the back, he fumbles with the pin, and finally managing to yank it out, he squeezes the lever, spraying the fire in the vehicle.

Andy and Joe manage to remove their hoods, only to find seven youths standing before them. They're each maybe eight or nine years old; despite their youth, they all wear malicious sneers.

Pete finally drops the fire extuinguisher and turns, at the same time that Patrick finally manages to remove his hood, and they see the same thing: seven kids holding chains, metal bars, baseball bats, the lead kid holding... _what?_

The one in the front, who Patrick hazily recognizes as the kid on the bike from before he was kidnapped, swings a boom box out from behind him.

"You can't be serious," Pete snorts, then promptly doubles over and vomits.

Each side stares silently at the other, until the four men sprint away into the night, splitting up into different directions, the children launching after them, wielding their weapons.

 

Patrick stumbles into a clearing, glancing over his shoulder. Only one kid is after him: the one with the boom box.

He decides that he doesn't want to find out what's about to happen.

The toe of his combat boot suddenly catches on a rock and he tumbles to the brittle grass with a yelp. The kid leaps for him, snarling. Patrick manages to push himself onto his feet and keep running. The kid is falling farther and farther behind, and he's beginning to think he just might make it.

Then the kid presses a button on his boom box, and that horrible, blinding rage fills Patrick from head to toe.

His eyes burn, and he freezes to a halt, then turns and walks, zombie-like, towards the blurry figure in front of him.

 _Kill_.

Patrick sees the dark-skinned man bound from the foliage and towards the figure, grabbing his head and snapping his neck, but he doesn't recognize him, doesn't care.

 _Kill_.

The white noise suddenly stops, and the man is holding out a hand in feeble, half-hearted defense, the other fist gripping the boom box. Patrick shakes his head, the burning in his eyes fading, but leaving behind a pounding headache.

He blinks at his savior, confused. The guy looks familiar from somewhere, but he can't quite place it. Then it hits him.

"Sean?" he croaks, throat parched. The guy nods. "Patrick, you gotta get outta here. Call the police, save your friends if you can." Patrick coughs again. "Come with us. We'll find a place to go, you can hide with us till this is over." Sean fidgets, glancing over his shoulder nervously.

"No, man. This won't ever be over. Not till we're all dead, you hear? Run, just run. That's all you can do. Even if they'll find you eventually." Patrick finds himself nodding and backing away. "Thank you. For saving me." he rasps. "Good luck."

He turns and breaks into a sprint, taking Sean's advice.

 _Run_.

 

Andy races through the forest, two of the deranged kids hot on his heels. One swings a series of heavy chrome chains. The other kid's weapon remains unbeknownst to him, as he doesn't dare look back for more than a second at a time.

Suddenly Andy trips, flying forward, hands breaking his fall and paying the price of skinned palms for it. In an instant, the kids are upon him, yelling with glee as they beat him.

It goes on for what seems like forever, and he's in horrible pain, unable to fight back, unable to even rise.

Then the kids leave him, and he lays on the grass, gathering just enough strength to sit up and gaze around, wary of another attack.

 

Joe thinks he just might be able to outrun these kids. They're about ten feet back, and he's heading into a area with heavy foliage.

Then the knife slams into his thigh, and his legs buckle as he collapses, letting out a shriek of pain. He clutches with white knuckles at the wound as the boys descend upon him like vultures to a carcass. Thick, sticky blood spills over his fingers and congeals in the frigid air.

They beat Joe with all their might as he rolls around in the mulch, trying in vain to protect himself by holding up his hands.

Finally, he manages to scramble to his feet and run away. The kids could have caught him with ease; his leg felt like it was on fire, and was dripping blood steadily down the leg of his ruined jeans.

But Joe escapes.

Alive.

 

Pete crashes through the undergrowth, the boy with the sunny yellow cast and the girl right behind him. He feels a wave of nausea sweep over him, and just barely fights it off.

Unfortunately, diverting his attention was a big mistake.

As he soars over a fallen tree and down a slope, the kid carrying the handlebars gets in a hit, throwing Pete off balance, and he crashes to the frozen ground. The kids set upon him at once, shrieking in delight as blood sprays up. Pete yells out and tries to crawl away, but they've got the advantage, and he's got no chance.

The other kid takes a heavy steel chain with a ball on the end, and mercilessly beats Pete as he rolls over onto his back, sobbing in agony. Every muscle, every bone, every inch of his body is on fire. Moving away on his elbows again, he's honestly shocked that nothing seems to be broken.

Yet.

Then, summoning his final scrap of strength, Pete clambers to his feet and runs for his life. The kid with the cast lunges after him, but misses and falls.

 

Sean drops the boom box, breaking into a sprint as Patrick turns and flees.

He's hardly gone ten feet before he hears a dull thunk and feels a horrible pain cuts into his back like a hot knife.

Halting abruptly, Sean pitches forward as the girls from the van sidle appear. The axe is yanked roughly from his back, and he groans in pain. The taller of the two uses her foot to flip him over onto his back. As the world tilts and becomes blurred, he catches a glimpse of Patrick disappearing into the woods. They haven't seen him. Good. The poor guy may live a little longer.

Sean, on the other hand...

They begin viciously kicking him in the abdomen, the heels of their black stilettos surely bruising his stomach, breaking his ribs. Sean thrashes, holding up his hands in fruitless defense.

"Please," he pleads, whimpering as he feels his own blood pooling around him, congealing on the brittle grass. He's becoming lightheaded, the pain in his back worsening, and his vision is blurring. He's dying; he knows it like he knows that the sky is blue.

"Oh, shut up, scum," one of the girls sneers, crouching over his chest and pressing the wooden handle of the axe to his throat, cutting off his oxygen supply.

Sean lets out a choked groan as they resume their beating, worse than ever.

Within a few minutes, his vision darkens, the agony ceases, and he slips away into nothingness.

 

Pete doesn't look back, just runs until he can hear nothing but his own panting and heavy footfalls. Then he crawls into a small, leafy hollow, and buries his head in his hands. He's never felt pain like this before; though God knows the shit Patrick's having to endure, missing a fucking hand and all.

Speaking of Patrick.

His bandmates. They'd all split up; Pete has no idea whether or not they're still alive. He groans, fresh tears leaking down his grimy, bloody cheeks.

Finally exhaustion overwhelms Pete, and he sinks into a fitful sleep, dreaming of hawks and blood and his friends.

 

Joe leans against a knarled tree trunk, adrenaline still pulsing through him as he glances wildly around, scanning for pursuers.

It's a long time before the curly-haired man calms himself enough to settle down. Humming to himself, Joe looks up through the leaves at the night sky. It's filled with stars, and not many clouds. The air is frigid, but he's got his denim vest and long sleeves, so he's relatively warm. Crickets chirp around him, and an owl hoots softly, off in the distance. A beautiful night.

He can't help but wonder if it will be his last.

 

Andy leans back on his elbows, resting his injured leg. Everything hurts like hell, but nothing seems to be broken, thankfully. He's got a good amount of cuts and bruises, though.

After a while, he realizes that he's tapping his fingers on the dry leaves, making a rhythm.

Andy sighs and falls backwards on the hard forest floor. There's nothing he'd like better now than to have a drum kit, play his heart out, all his anxieties and worries and fears.

But he's not sure they could ever leave him after this.

 

Patrick finally stops in a small patch of leaves, his asthma getting the better of him. After a few minutes, he gets his breath back and sits, running his remaining hand through his hair and groaning. The bruise on his cheek aches, the cuts on his forehead sting. The incisions in his belly throb, and the place where his left hand used to be... well, he's getting used to the fire-like pain.

Flopping back onto the dead leaves, Patrick closes his eyes, too drained to give a shit about any lingering danger. He sings softly to himself, reveling in the familiar sliver of comfort in this fucked-up world.

_"Oh, how the mighty fall in love..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try not to take this long with Just One Yesterday. Promise.  
> But it's one of my all-time favorite FOB songs, so it shouldn't be too much of a problem.  
> Of course, that's what I said to this. Just don't trust my timing xD


End file.
